


The Subtle Art of Tactile Politics

by MadameMiz



Series: Power Dynamics [5]
Category: Phineas and Ferb
Genre: M/M, courtship 101, doofcest au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMiz/pseuds/MadameMiz
Summary: You grin at him as you take his hand and allow yourself to be lead out to the shiny floor of the palace. If he wants to put you in the spotlight, let him. What’s dinner without a show, after all?
  A direct continuation of Waltzing with Sharks by DesdemonaKaylose, which is very good and should definitely be read before this in order for it to make any sense.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesdemonaKaylose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/gifts).



> Part of the Doofcest AU, in which Heinz stays in the 2nd Dimension for a brief period of time and some form of illegitimate, lopsided quasi-romance ensues between Heinz and his double. Or something like that. I wrote this back in 2014 and just never got around to uploading it here until now.

The rest of dinner goes by with little incident. The nervous air dissipates bit by bit as your double’s guests fill themselves with food and various, mostly alcoholic beverages. Anxious glances still abound, of course, and they’re still very obviously trying to figure you out, but the hushed whispers slowly bubble into the loud drone of a proper party. Even laughter is heard after enough time has passed.

You don’t speak to anyone else. The screams of the last person you spoke with still ring in your ears and, frankly, you’d rather not spoil the lightening atmosphere by accidentally dooming another hapless ambassador. Not that you feel _guilty_ about it, of course.

So you finish your fancy food in silence, trying to avoid dirtying your white tux as the other you watches on, pointedly ignoring any tentative attempts at conversation or questions thrown his way. For the host of a shindig this grand, and one that’s supposed to be politically motivated to boot, he’s not very hospitable, you think sourly. You’d _totally_ do a better job than this.

You’re on the verge of telling him so when he holds up a hand and, with a flick of the wrist, brings the band, along with the conversation, to a halt. Out of the corner of your eyes, you see the Normbots and Perryborg perk up, awaiting a potential order. You throw a questioning, slightly startled glance his way, and he meets it with a smile that doesn’t quite manage to be disarming.

With another motion, the quiet, somewhat stuffy music that lazily drifted through the air is replaced by a quicker, peppier tune, somewhere between a waltz and a tango. He looks out over the sea of faces and gestures toward the floor, silently giving permission to leave the table. When nobody moves, he points violently out to the floor.

“Well, what are you waiting for, the Normbots to dump you out of your chairs? Go! Dance, live a little.”

They don’t have to be told twice. You wince at the sound of a hundred chairs being pushed back at once as their former occupants scramble away. Satisfied, he brings down his hand and, in one deft motion, offers it to you. He’s asking for a dance, you realize. Judging from the low murmur that breaks out over the crowd, so does everyone else. All eyes are on you as he waits for a response.

It occurs to you that this is probably all he wants—to make a spectacle out of you. He wants everyone to stare, to question your existence, to question what he’s capable of. He wants to mess with their heads, and possibly yours as well.

You grin at him as you take his hand and allow yourself to be lead out to the shiny floor of the palace. If he wants to put you in the spotlight, let him. What’s dinner without a show, after all?

You fall into step effortlessly, and though he leads, your steps are perfectly matched, perfectly timed. A crowd has gathered in a loose circle around you, unabashedly staring at the display. You doubt they’ve ever seen such a graceful pair, or ever will again.

“They probably think I’m a robot,” you say as quietly as you can manage above the music.

“Or the twin I’ve been keeping locked up in my tower,” he adds with a snort.

“Oh man, how much do you wanna bet they thought the universe would collapse when I took your hand? All those old time travel paradox myths and all.”

He gives your fingers a squeeze, the slightly sadistic glint in his eye telling you that he hopes they did. You’re suddenly very aware that he’s not wearing his gloves for once. The tempo picks up a bit and, though they give you a wide berth, other couples begin to join you after a few minutes. Neither of you pay them any mind. You throw him out in a spin, and as he returns he pulls you down into a low dip, pulling you closer by the arm around the small of your back.

“Having fun?” he asks, looking more sincere than he has all night. His face hovers over yours, cast into shadow by the light above him, and you faintly smell a hint of expensive wine on his breath.

“Yeah,” you respond, and you’re almost surprised that you’re telling the truth. “I mean, it was kind of a rough start with the whole… shark thing and all, but you're—it’s nice. This is nice.” He still has you lowered in the dip, holding you in place. He seems pleased with your answer, if his lazy smile and half-lidded eye are anything to go by. For a moment, you almost think he’s going to kiss you—not that you blame him. You’re a very kissable guy, after all. It certainly would make an impression on their spectators, _that’s_ for sure. You can imagine the chatter that would cause. _That handsome Emperor kissed his equally handsome clone at his fancy soiree other night, isn’t that something?_ It would certainly end the party with a bang.

He doesn’t, though, and you can’t quite match the crowd’s collective sigh of relief. You’re pulled up instead, into one final twirl, before your dance comes to an end. Chest to identical chest, slightly winded, you bite down slightly petulant disappointment as the crowd gives applause that’s only half earnest. He tugs you close, then, into what must surely look like an odd sort of embrace. Your faces rest side by side, his lips at your ear.

“Later,” he says above the final strains of music.


End file.
